Cookies, Tea, and Ghosts
by Nemaides
Summary: Lockwood & Co tackle a sinister case in an abandoned house. But things quickly go awry . . .
1. Chapter 1

The sun was setting, a pretty display of pink and orange streaks across the sky. This signaled of the encroaching night. People hurried to and fro, rushing to get home before dark.

Speaking of the dark.

I stepped away from the window and got to work, carefully arranging a few candles on top of the creaky dining table. After a few strikes of the matches and encouragement here and there, all four candles were burning brightly. I picked my rapier off of the table, twirled it as I watched the soft flames with satisfaction, and then turned around.

My fellow colleagues of Lockwood & Co were caught up in jobs of their own. Lockwood was pouring tea into three cups, his rapier resting against a chair on the side. George was polishing his glasses, frowning, before attacking them once again with the squeaky cloth.

"Are the candles lit?" Lockwood sent a boiling cup spinning dangerously toward George; the plump boy caught the cup and lifted it to his lips without even glancing up.

"See for yourself." I sat down at the table and took a cup for myself. There's nothing better than tea from the Pitkin Brothers of Bond Street to soothe your nerves before a job. And if George had brought the cookies like he'd said he would, then it would be all the better.

Lockwood appeared to have read my mind, because he said only a moment later, "What about the cookies, George?"

George settled his glasses onto his nose. "I put them in the bag."

Lockwood let his eyes wander across the cramped kitchen, from the gleaming sink to the curtained window, to the kettle resting on the stove, across the floor, and finally to the doorway, where all that could be seen was blackness. "And where, exactly, is the bag?"

"Lucy had it," George pointed out with a huff. They both turned to me expectantly.

I was busily scouring my brain. "I definitely took it with me."

"Did you leave it at home?" George asked smugly. "_Quite _the professional, Lucy."

I took a moment to scowl at him. "I said I brought it, didn't I?"

"So where is it?"

"I must have left it at the door, when we first came inside," I muttered sullenly.

"You'd best go fetch it then. Tea doesn't taste right without cookies." George leaned back in his chair and watched me smugly. Lockwood was bent over, his coat draping across the back of his chair, organizing the contents of his belt on a table beside him.

I slid my rapier fiercely into my hilt. "Fine. But I get two cookies for this."

Lockwood straightened up. George cocked his head at me. The two boys looked at me with equally horrific feigned looks of shock.

"You mustn't forget the cookie rule, Lucy," Lockwood said seriously, a slight smile playing across his lips. "The cookie rule always applies."

I glared at them both. They maintained straight faces.

"Fine!" I repeated, standing up and striding to the door. I filled my lungs up with the warm, kitchen air and then barged out into the darkness.

The temperature outside of the kitchen decreased dramatically, like stepping into a walk-in fridge for the milk. I shivered slightly and buttoned up my coat, flipping up the flaps to cover my neck. One sleeve was rather loose, because George had stretched it while loading it into the washing machine; thus, it kept on slumping down to reveal my bare left shoulder to the chilly air. I hoisted the sleeve back up and continued down the hall.

Another breath of the musty, dust-filled air and I was in the main hall. As my eyes adjusted to the blackness, I could make out the doors of the several other rooms adjoining this one. Another hall was off to the right, winding into a corridor of pitch-blackness.

Years ago, paranormal activity in this house had driven its occupants away. Now the contractor wanted to sell it, and he wanted it rid of all ghosts beforehand. Which was why Lockwood & Co was now on the job.

I skirted a low table, my heart beating slowly, and approached the dark wooden frame of the front door. A prickle ran swiftly up my neck and I whirled around, my hand flying to the hilt of my rapier. There was that uneasy feeling of being _watched._

Moonlight was filtering through the grimy upstairs windows to paint the dusty floorboards below with a silvery sheen. Skirting around the brilliant spotlight, shadows oozed their ways along the walls. I shifted my gaze around the hall. There was nothing.

I set my shoulders and turned back around.

Sure enough, right beside the front door was a large duffle bag. I grabbed it by the handles and hefted it up, began walking quickly back toward the hall leading to the kitchen.

The bag was rather heavy, and I wondered exactly how many cookies George had—

There it was again! That _feeling. _As if something were spying on me.

I swiveled quickly on my heel, ears pricking, and pinpointed it. It was coming from the dark hallway across the room.

I dropped the duffel on the floor and strode across the squeaky floor, headed for the hallway. As I approached, I could feel that distinct atmosphere of miasma. It was a feeling that slowly worked my gut into knots, made goose bumps run up my arms, and a feeling of numbness spread across my body. But I'd dealt with these things before. A few quick breaths and a few long ones later, I forced the dread out of my mind and continued on.

I was at the very edge of the hall when the temperature dropped dramatically. It was 39 degrees now, and my breaths were coming out in puffs of steam.

I had to be getting close to the Source.

I stood at the outer reaches of the blackness, gazing into it. Seeing nothing.

I closed my eyes. Concentrated. Listened.

At first I heard nothing, but as I strained a faint noise appeared. It was the sound of soft breathing, echoing around and around, vibrating throughout the hall. It died away to be replaced by a whimper, quiet and then growing louder and louder. I clamped my hands over my ears, hissing through my teeth. The sound grew and grew; the whimpers were shrill; and then, just like that, it was gone.

I lowered my hands, breathing hard.

"Lucy!"

I swiveled. Lockwood and George were standing in the opposite hallway, both of them angry. My palms were sweaty; I wiped them absently on my skirt, and slowly approached the pair.

"Before you say anything," I cut in, holding up a hand, "I have a reason."

"It'd better be a good one. You knowyou're not supposed to go anywhere without us knowing." Lockwood straightened his coat and exchanged a glance with George.

"You knew where I was," I replied heatedly. "Getting the bag. Anyway—"

George kicked the duffel beside his foot. "Then why's it right here?"

"Look. I wasn't going anywhere. I was just standing at the end of the hall, and nothing happened." I met their gazes defiantly. "I'm fine. And—"

"There could have been trouble," George said darkly, "And then where would you be?"

They both considered me silently.

"I would have fought off any ghosts, gotten the duffel, and you'd have your cookies with tea, George," I answered firmly. "Now, if you two would just listen—"

"It's another rule, Luce," Lockwood interrupted. "You _can't _go anywhere without us knowing in a household that has a Presence. None of us can. It's just too dangerous."

"You're not invincible, even if you think you might be," George added.

"_Will you two just listen to me?!" _I burst out angrily.

George, his mouth open, snapped it shut in surprise. Lockwood had his arms folded and was watching me with careful consideration.

"I got it, I did something wrong, all right, I'm sorry. I broke a rule. But I got something out of it—and don't you dare interrupt me again, George—_I found the Source."_

I hefted up the duffel bag again. "I've got the bag like you said, so I suppose we'll go have cookies and tea now. George, how many cookies, exactly, did you put in here? The bag weighs a ton."

They were both watching me silently again.

"What is it _now?" _I hoisted up the bag. "Well? You wanted the bag, I got the bag."

Lockwood cleared his throat and spoke at last. "It appears to be, Lucy, that we've underestimated you once again."

"An apology would fit in right about here," I said agreeably.

"An apology?" Lockwood raised his eyebrow. "Ah, no, sadly not. You still broke a rule. Everything is evened out now."

I muttered something unintelligible to myself.

"Where did you say that Source was?" Lockwood cleared his throat again.

"I didn't."

"Then hurry up and show us," George snapped, pushing his glasses up his nose. He grabbed the duffel away from me.

"What happened to tea and coo—"

"The _Source_, Lucy," Lockwood said.

"Isn't it obvious? Right where I was standing." I turned and pointed to the dark, dark hallway. "Down there somewhere is where the Source is. Hope nobody's scared of the dark?"


	2. Chapter 2

All three members of Lockwood & Co stood at the end of the hallway, testing their own separate talents. We looked and listened, testing for any paranormal activity.

"Are you hearing anything, Luce?" Lockwood scanned the hallway, his eyes searching carefully through the darkness.

"No." Curiously, the whimpering cries had ceased. Everything was dead silent aside from the occasional growls from George's stomach. "What about you?"

"There's the faintest glow at the end of the hallway. It's rather subtle. I almost missed it." He straightened his gloves and flashed me one of his bright smiles, visible even through the gloom. "Ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." I held out a hand. "Torch, George."

The plump boy rummaged through his bag and handed us a torch each. I stuck mine in my belt along with my rapier and several cans of hardy Greek Fire.

"Let's go." Lockwood took the first step down the hall, quickly disappearing into the gloom. George followed second, hauling the duffel along with him. The torch strap had gotten tangled up with my rapier hilt, so while they walked ahead I worked with frustration at the knot.

My fingers slipped on the fibers; I growled in frustration and yanked the torch out. It slithered out of my fingers and fell to the dusty floor, the rapier clattering along with it. The sound echoed loudly, startling the deep silence.

"Lucy, what's going on?" Lockwood's irritated voice came echoing back down the hallway. "Where are you?"

I bent down to scoop them back up. "Coming along, Lockwood. Some stuff got tangled together. Go on ahead, it won't take long."

Their quiet footsteps resumed.

I tugged at the knot and it slipped off of the hilt like butter. I tucked the torch back into my belt and clasped my fingers around the hilt of my rapier before looking up.

Standing before me and blocking the way into the hall was a young boy.

For a moment I simply gaped in shock; then strong malaise hit me like a wave, nearly sweeping me off my feet. My muscles seized up, then went limp. I was nauseous, dizzy, and passive all at once; the whirlwind of emotions that usually are a human beings' now seemed to have gone away; I was an empty shell, nothing but fear, fear-

No. _Deep breaths, deep breaths . . . stay calm. _

He drifted closer.

I gulped in lungfuls of the stale air, tried to calm my racing heartbeat. He'd taken me surprise and that was all. I had dealt with things like this before (almost too frequently, it would seem).

By now, the boy had drifted close enough so that if he reached out a hand, and really stretched out, he could touch me on the arm. Perhaps that was what he wanted. I took a slow step backward, veering carefully around a hat stand.

The boy was young, or at least he appeared to be. He was around four or five, and it was saddening that he'd died so young. His blond hair was tousled. He was in pajamas, the soft blue footie kind, as if he'd just climbed out of bed. All in all, he could have been any normal little boy if not for his face, which was shadowed and empty of expression. The blankness of his brown eyes, which stared into my own, also suggested of an unearthly feel. The white plasm that shone gauzily all around him was the final call.

I lifted my rapier and pointed the tip at his chest. "Stay back."

He drifted closer.

I took another step back; by now I was almost into the other hall. The warm glow from the kitchen beamed at me mockingly, and I took a few precious moments to curse the cookies that had led to this. Meanwhile, the boy's limp blond hair flowed across his pale forehead because of a wind that could not be felt, exposing his shining brown eyes.

"Is there something wrong?" I used a quiet, even tone devoid of fear or anger. Visitors feed off of those emotions and grow strong. It's best to remain calm and cheerful, and hopefully the Visitor will be passive as well. "Do you need anything? We can help."

He cocked his head slowly to the side. There was a flicker and he was slightly transparent, so I could see past him to the hallway beyond, and then he was solid once more. _"Scared," _he whispered softly, and to my listening ears it was as if the sound were echoing up faintly from a deep well.

_"I'm scared." _Now his impassive eyes glinted sadly; his mouth opened and a series of horrible, moaning wails and whimpers were emitted. They rang throughout the house; I clamped my hands over my ears, staggered backward. _"Scared. Scared. I'm scared . . ."_

He was Type Two, all right, to be moving around and strong enough to communicate. And what was it that George always said?

That Type Twos always mean someone's done something to somebody. Murder, for example.

The whimpers continued, increasing in volume; my panting breaths steamed in the chilly air. Then, just as abruptly as they'd come, the noise was gone.

I unclenched my ears and watched as the boy glided backward across the floor, his eyes boring into mine, before disappearing into the gloom.

Then, with a start, I realized:

"Lockwood! George! There's a Visitor headed your way!" I cried. Then I drew my rapier and plunged in cautiously after it.

**I realize this chapter was kind of short. :/ I'm sorry! The others will be longer, I promise. Anyway, review so I know how this story is going. **


	3. Chapter 3

The cloying blackness quickly swallowed me into its murky depths.

What was to be heard? There was nothing but the squeal of the aged floorboards under my hurrying feet. What was to be seen? Sight had never been my strongest talent, no, that was for Lockwood. Still, I kept out a wary eye for any glowing traces of a Visitor.

"Lockwood! George! Where _are _you?" I stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. My fingers slid unconsciously toward the torch at my side. Light would be useful at a time like this. Mostly because there were two certain people who _weren't answering m—_

"Down _here_. Hurry, can't you?" George's voice rang back in a stage whisper.

I strode forward.

And walked promptly into a thin figure. I yelled in surprise.

"Lucy?" a voice hissed. Lockwood. "No, no, put that away"—a hand batted at the torch, and I stowed it back into my belt—"The Visitor came drifting down the hall and disappeared only a moment ago. If you were a few seconds faster, you'd have walked right into it."

"A big tangle in your belt, was it?" It was George this time. I bristled.

"Oh, be quiet, George." I stepped beside what I thought was Lockwood and tried to peer through the darkness. I could only make out blurred shapes and such, but if I really _looked, _I thought I could see the frame of a door. Our current destination, it would seem, if we were to continue gallivanting down this gloomy hall . . .

Lockwood made a little sound in his throat. "You all right, Luce?"

I nodded.

"Lucy. Are you okay? That was a bit of a run-in you had back there," he repeated.

Ah. He couldn't see me nodding.

"Yes," I muttered. "Perfectly fine."

"Are you sure?"

"What did I say? _Yes. _Let's just get this over with."

"Not so fast. We didn't get a good look at the ghost. What did it look like?" George spoke up from behind us. "No sense in rushing into things, though we have _already. _Again and _again, _I say we need to do research. Did we do enough research for this job? You tell me."

"I said we did." Lockwood's gloves snapped as he straightened them. "And I'm in charge, so—"

"—So it was perfectly all right in the Annie Ward case, then? You two rushed off, and look where that left us."

"We solved the case," I said indignantly.

"You _burned the client's house down." _

"I was trying to help Lockwood."

"And he got ghost-touched anyway. Your fingers swelled up like sausages, didn't you say, Lockwood?"

"They did indeed," Lockwood agreed, "but that's not the point here. The point _is _that we need to find the Source. Lucy?"

"It was a young boy, maybe five or so. Pajamas. Sad little face with most mournful eyes I'd ever seen. That good enough for His Highness?"

"Did he say anything?" George pointedly ignored the last comment and proceeded on to check his belt-thermometer. The luminous dial glowed, giving our faces a greenish pallor. I got to examine the two of them properly now; Lockwood was as impeccable as ever, and George as unruly.

"He said he was scared."

"Poor little fellow." Lockwood swiveled his head slightly and glanced at the unnerving darkness beyond. "How's the temperature, George?"

"Twenty-seven degrees Fahrenheit. Almost half the temperature in the kitchen." George put the belt-thermometer away, and immediately we were plunged back into the darkness.

We began walking again, slowly, in a straight line with Lockwood in front and George in the back. I stubbed my toe on the leg of a side-table and cursed quietly.

"The Visitor could be anywhere. Be ready," Lockwood warned us.

"We know that; stop making us increasingly jumpy," I replied back in a low hiss, trying to ignore the throbbing from my toe.

George was muttering again behind us.

"What _is _it, George?" I bit at him. Lockwood was slowly turning his head, scanning for traces of the paranormal.

"You two never listen to me, do you?"

"Back to this again?" Lockwood said wearily.

"Yes! The thing is, while you two might _scoff_ at it, research is important. It could have saved us a great deal of trouble in the Annie Ward—"

"Is that your only point, George?" I asked him disagreeably.

"_No. _I'm just saying that this ghost could be more dangerous than we think it is. And we wouldn't know until we're all ghost-touched and lying blue and swelling on the floor," he added with menacing finality.

Lockwood muttered something back, but I was too deep in my thoughts to bother listening.

I'd been with another team before. We'd underestimated the power of a ghost. The result was fatal for everyone, except for me.

I was soon struck out of my dark reminiscing, however.

"Right ahead!" Lockwood exclaimed suddenly, gesturing down the hall. I looked forward, my hair whipping across my jaw, and there he was.

The little boy shone brightly in the dark; he stared at us solemnly, then turned and drifted into the room, the interior of which was as black as pitch.

We hurried after him, George lagging slightly while Lockwood cut ahead, his figure casting a slim shadow through moonlight dripping from a window above.

"Temperature's dropping!" George cried out.

I could feel it, too. My fingers were crisp with cold, and I was sure that if it were brighter I'd be able to see my breath steaming in the chilly air. I shivered; goose bumps stood up on my arms, and I thought longingly of my sweater, lying draped across a chair back at home.

"Twenty degrees . . . now fifteen . . . _thirteen_ . . ." George stopped dead in front of the door. We paused. Looked in.

"The Source," Lockwood said quietly. "He probably died here, in this room. What do you think, an iron-and-salt field?"

"Best option there is," George agreed. He knelt and unzipped the duffel, handing us sacks of iron filings and bars.

An iron-and-salt field was when the Source of a ghost was a single room. The best thing was to knock the room down and renovate, or if you were going cheap, to set up iron around the room, but that was to be done during the day.

I took a bag, weighed it in my palm, and then turned to the others. We looked at each other briefly. Lockwood opened his mouth to speak.

The loud sound of crunching startled us both.

"George!" Lockwood reproached, swiveling on his heel. "What are you— ah."

The other boy blew crumbs off of his fingers and reached into the plastic baggie for another cookie. "A bit salty. Goes to show to never let Lucy bake the cookies."

"_Lockwood _baked the cookies," I snapped back. "And what happened to the cookie rule?"

"There's no rule against _this," _George replied emphatically. He looked me in the eye and took a bite of the cookie. "One cookie, you see?"

Lockwood was watching the two of us bicker with one eyebrow raised. "George."

The plump boy dusted off his fingers. "Lockwood?"

"Hand over the bag."

We cut quite a picture: Lockwood, leaning elegantly against the wall, George standing stolidly beside him, and I against the far wall, all of us eating cookies. At last, the bag was crinkled and the last crumbs had been pecked at.

"Those cookies weren't salty, George," Lockwood declared. "Perfect, in all areas." He was brushing off his long coat, snapping his gloves back on.

"Goes to show what you know about food."

We rechecked the duffel and then Lockwood looked us both over, particularly George, with some suspicion, as if the boy could be hiding cookies up his sweater.

"Should we continue on?" he asked at last, gesturing toward the open doorway with a sweep of his arms.

"Let's," I agreed. I faced the door and stepped in first.

The first thing that struck me was the cold; it was bitterly so, and I clenched my teeth to stop them front chattering. The second thing was the sudden wave of malaise; I felt heavy and numb; there was nothing worth living for anymore. Why would there be, when I felt this empty?

The third thing shocked me out of the first two.

Lockwood and George were about to enter the room when the door creaked, a hard wind blew, and it slammed shut on their faces.

Locking me in.


	4. Chapter 4

Time seemed to stop.

I stared, numbly, at the closed door. Splinters were peeling away from it, and the knob was a dull gold that glinted in the moonlight. The wood rattled and hissed as the door was pounded urgently from the other side, shaking on its hinges.

Then I snapped back to my senses. This wasn't a time, after all, to become befuddled. I could do that later.

I swiveled on my heel, drawing my rapier in the same movement, and faced the room. One hand reached back to fiddle with the doorknob; the door remained stubbornly closed, and the knob was icy to the touch.

The voices shouted from the other side were muffled.

"Whatever you do, don't let it get close!" The door rattled on its hinges again. "D'you hear me, Luce? Lucy!"

"I can hear you, Lockwood, stop bothering me!" I shouted back. "I can handle this. Just let me focus!"

A mutter, another half-hearted jiggle on the door, and then all other noises subsided.

I let myself examine the room properly for the first time.

It actually wasn't as dark as I'd thought; moonlight wilted in through the cracks of a boarded-up window. These spears of light traversed across the floor to puncture my shifting shadow. There was a dusty carpet on the floor, and a basket stuffed with toys on the side. A small table was cluttered with papers and worn crayons. Against one wall was a small bed the size for a young boy, a weathered teddy bear lying atop it. It was slightly eerie, as if the child had been plucked out of the scene and his bedroom had been catapulted into the underworld.

I advanced slowly across the room, held hostage here until the ghost relented. Or until I did something about it and drove it away, which was my best option and the one I had decided to go with.

I stepped cautiously onto the carpet. It crackled dryly under my feet, stiff with age, and I proceeded across it toward the far wall. The first thing to do was to ring up a place of safety.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled; I fought my feelings of unease away, tried to focus on the task at hand as I put a hand on the wall and took a deep breath.

A rustle.

I turned quickly, spotted something shifting in the shadows. It took a step toward me, and then disappeared. There was another rustle in another corner, and the same thing happened.

The ring of safety, I needed to make—oh, damn. The iron chains. They were in the duffel. Which was, at present, in the hallway with George and Lockwood.

I gritted my teeth and knelt down, staying alert with my eyes flicking to and fro, and grabbed my sack of iron filings. It was the best there was right now. I had to make do, though I wasn't happy about it.

I sat down in the center of the ring, lay my rapier in front of me, and called out. "What do you want?"

Another rustle. I ignored it. A faint wind blew, the filings shifted. I clenched my jaw.

A whimper.

My head snapped up at the familiar sound and I reared back in shock.

He was standing there. Right next to me. Inside of the circle.

I reacted quickly, exploding out of my seated position and snatching up my rapier as I went. Across the room I bounded, to the bed, where I stood warily against its cold blankets, considering my options one-by-one.

The filings had shifted, being the weak things that they were—a demonstration of his power. And to shift the filings?

He had to be a strong, strong Type Two. One of the strongest I'd ever been against, this young boy.

And I had to trounce him. Alone. Myself. This was certain to be interesting.

"What happened to you?" I asked, stalling, my eyes darting around the room. "Can I help?"

His ghostly sheen glimmered, a pearly vapor that clung to him like a cloak. There was no answer. Just rustling in the corners, and that unreadable expression. I was surprised he wasn't already in action; feeding off of my fear like the child he was on candy he could no longer eat.

I took a few deep breaths, shifting lightly on my toes, taking advantage of the lull in activity. A filing skidded across the floor and bounced lightly against my trainer.

Suddenly, the boy moved.

He surged toward me like a wave, his face distorted, horrible, streaming with tears and angry at the same time. An earsplitting wail made me scream out in pain. I barely had time to think, just reacted; I pulled up my rapier, falling across the bed. The teddy bear tumbled forward, brushing against my hand, and fell to the floor, rolling underneath the bed.

The cold chill from my rapier made the Visitor surge away. He swooped back around, a hissing sound escaping through his teeth. His eyes locked on mine.

Feeling half-mad, the rapier wormed its way traitorously from my hand and fell to the floor with a mournful clatter. My legs were trembling; my lips were blue with cold; my ears rang. I stooped to pick it up; a wind gusted, and it flew across the room to stick into a map of the world, the point jabbing into the Pacific Ocean.

I watched the ghost approach with a heavy dread. My hand slid toward the Greek Fire at my waist—bother to burning down another client's house, this was life-and-death here, my life, and I still wanted to live, I did, I do—and the boy hovered over me, his young face surprisingly gentle. One pale white hand reached down to caress my cheek.

At which the boarded-up window shuddered and shattered, the boards clattering across the floor and the glass spraying across the room in a million surprised whispers.

Lockwood and George vaulted through the window and skidded across the chunks of glass.

The boy turned, distracted; I stepped forward, raised my arm, and stabbed him through his ghostly back with my rapier.

**Reviews have been telling me that this story is OOC. I've been checking it over, but if there could be specifics it would help! Thanks! **


	5. Chapter 5

The boy's form flickered, like a bad projector, wavering in and out of view. He finally separated into thin wisps of plasm that began wafting away into the still air. His mouth opened in a soundless howl; then he disappeared entirely. He wouldn't be gone for long, as it would only hold him off for a bit. He'd come back even angrier, too. That was the downside of stabbing a Visitor.

There was a dead silence.

I jerked my rapier back toward me and wiped the excess plasm on the bedspread, awkward under the tense stares of Lockwood and George. A ghost hadn't rattled me like this for a long time. I was feeling numb all over, especially in my shoulder. I reached up a gloved hand and rubbed it absently, my heart drumming wild staccatos against my chest.

Lockwood was now poking around the room, making a careful trail of filings behind him. He seemed quite unruffled, though his hand stayed on the hilt of his rapier at all times. At last, he turned around and joined George in the center of the room. His eyes, which were the color of freshly made coffee, focused on me with concern.

"I must be sounding quite repetitive, but I'll say it again: Are you all right, Luce?"

I lowered my hand, my shoulder throbbing in sync with my heartbeat. I must have strained it when I'd fallen across the bed. "Quite, Lockwood. And you don't have to spread those filings all around the room, because—" I broke off midsentence as my shoulder gave a particularly nasty throb. It was giving me a lot of grief, for a shoulder than had only been strained.

I leaned against the wall and pulled down the slumping sleeve of my coat, then my shirt, to reveal my bare shoulder.

It was swelling, turning a nasty shade of blue, and the veins within stood out against my flesh. After a brief glance-over, I released the sleeve and quickly thought over this turn of events.

I'd been ghost-touched.

"Is there a problem?" George spoke up, still breathing heavily from the dash round the house and then a clamber through the broken window.

Wordlessly, I faced them and pulled down my sleeve.

They both leaned forward, then back, their expressions changing to match mine: eyebrows lowered, mouths pursed, as we all stood there, our minds racing madly.

Within an hour, the rot would have spread throughout my body and enclosed my heart. We all knew what would happen after that.

"Time to call the police, then," Lockwood said swiftly. He leaped through the open window again, disappearing into the night. George followed. I lingered for a few moments, pausing to fiercely yank my rapier out of the wall. A large crater appeared in the Pacific Ocean.

I hopped out of the window, feeling a slight wash of relief to be leaving the place behind.

By the time the authorities arrived, my whole left arm was throbbing and tingling, irritating me so much I was prepared to gnaw the thing off myself.

"It's times like these that the medicine should be widely available to the public," I muttered as a flashing ambulance pulled up the curb. "But is it? _No."_

"It's because it could also act as a very addicting drug, Luce," Lockwood informed me. "That's why it's so under lock-and-key."

"Goody, addiction is ranked higher than the danger of a ghost-touch," I grumbled sourly and trod on a wilting tomato plant.

By now I was seated in the trunk of an ambulance, a folded blanket in my lap while behind me several medics buzzed around like drunken bees. A medic holding a sanitary swab drew near, toting with her a needle that wouldn't look out of place when knitting a scarf. I grimaced and looked away.

"Oh, just _look_ at the size of that needle," Lockwood said with a straight face. "Very large, isn't it, George?"

"Humongous." George was smirking.

"Let's watch Lucy bear it in silence, then, shall we?"

"Bet you ten pounds she won't."

This last statement gave me quite a bit of fury, so that when the needle finally slid into the raw flesh of my swollen left arm I could hardly feel it.

Lockwood beamed his brilliant smile. "Very stoic, Lucy. Excellent, excellent . . . George, I think you owe me those ten?"

George forked over the money in a sullen silence. I was feeling a bit too gloomy to get worked up over the fact that a bet had just been placed upon me.

"Excuse me, but we'll need to take you to the hospital," the medic was saying, her hand closing firmly around my wrist.

"The hospital? What for?" I demanded. "I've got my shot."

"To check for shock, amongst other things." The medic looked tired—it was late at night, after all, and I felt a bit bad for drawing her out here—and her blond hair was hanging limply around her face, but even in her sleep-deprived state the grip of her hand around mine stayed strong.

"I'm not in _shock, _this is my job." I attempted to hop out of the ambulance. What _actually_ occurred was that one booted foot stepped over the rim, the medic yanked me back, and I let out an undignified screech as more hurt was added to my left arm. The medic apologized in an unapologetic way.

"And you can see just how brilliant we are at it," George added sarcastically to my last comment. He poked his glasses further up his nose and sighed. "Lockwood, tell her."

Lockwood's mouth was already open; he didn't need any more encouraging. "Just go, Lucy."

"Eh?"

"See you back at home later."

"Wait! I need to tell—" The doors of the ambulance swung closed and my sentence was cut short. My words fell limply to the floor and were stepped upon as the medics hurried about, securing items and ushering me onto the cot.

How typical. How cliché. I'd needed to tell them something, something _important, _but now I was being whisked away to the hospital instead.

I sat on the cot, gritting my teeth, and allowed the woman to put a blanket around me. "I'm not in shock," I said again.

"Whatever," she replied tiredly, and turned away—then she suddenly snapped back to me again. Her pale gray eyes roved over my face, then to the hand that was cupping my injured shoulder, and finally to the rapier belted proudly at my waist. More importantly, to the insignia that had been stamped onto the hilt. "Oh, it's you!"

"Sorry?" I really wasn't in the mood.

"The girl with the amazing sensitivity to ghosts," the medic gushed, suddenly hyperactive, positively glowing with excitement. "You helped solve the Annie Ward case, right?"

"Well, yes, but along with the rest of my team," I said awkwardly. "It was pretty simple once you thought about it . . ."

"It was brilliant. And you survived the night at that place, whatever it's name is, with the Screaming Staircase and the Red Room? That was amazing," she concluded, repeating, "Brilliant. Hey, could you possibly . . ."

I sighed. "I think we're here."

She opened her mouth to speak again, but I was already out the door, hopping onto the pavement and starting off toward the hospital building. The sooner I could get this over with, the better.

The doctors in the emergency room bade me to sit on a paper-covered bed while they gave me more shots and had me eat odd things. A light was shone in my eyes, while I insisted that I didn't have a concussion and I'd merely fallen on a darned _bed, _then an ice pack for my shoulder and I was booted back out again.

A wailing ambulance pulled into the lot, and I scampered out of the way, tossing the ice pack into a nearby bin. I had to get home, there was no money in my pockets, my shoulder was aching again, and I was tired, I was _hungry . . . _

"Do you need a ride?"

I instinctively balled my fists, turning around to face the direction of the speaker. Then I relaxed a smidgen, brushed a strand of hair out of my face. My eyebrows were probably lowered, making me look angrier than I actually was, but there was little I could do about that.

"Possibly," I replied cheerlessly.

"Money for a cab?" The medic that had spoken with me on the ambulance raised her eyebrows. Her gray eyes were questioning.

"No."

"I'm heading home," she said, sliding into her tiny red car. "Could drop you off, if you want."

I considered her for a moment. My aching legs and sore shoulder screamed for me to take up her offer; my better judgment shot their appeals down. "No thanks, I'll walk."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Well, come here, I need to talk to you, Lucy Carlily."

"It's Carlyle."

"Whatever."

I slowly approached the car, my rapier hitting the side of my leg as I walked. It was a reassuring movement, as were the cans of Greek Fire that pressed uncomfortably against my stomach. These things were effective against ghosts, but they could work against troublesome people as well.

"Listen, Lucy." She leaned against the door of her car, her keys dangling from her fingers.

"Hold on. You know my name from the papers, but I don't know yours." My eyes searched her watery gray ones. "So?"

She hesitated. The night sky above her twinkled with stars, and she looked up to drink the sight in before saying, "Meredith Watson."

"Watson? Like from _Sherlock Holmes?" _

"Excuse me?"

"Whatever," I said, a good copy of Meredith earlier. "Go on."

"I have a good . . . a good relative of mine, a cousin. She and her husband own that house, the one you were just investigating, and it would help if you told me what occurred tonight." She said this all in a rush, while somehow maintaining her passive demeanor. Behind her, the street still roared with cars, and a horn blared out into the night.

"No one owns the house yet," I answered dismissively. "It's the contractor's. And I don't see any reason why I should relate to you the events of this night."

"She owned the house before," Meredith snapped.

There was a brief pause.

"There were a few odd things tonight," I answered slowly, "I . . . excuse me. I really have to go." I stepped past her and crossed the street.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Meredith Watson watched the girl go. Once Lucy Carlyle was on the other side of the road, the medic slid into her car and shakily put her hands on the wheel.

After a drive across the city, the little red car parked at the curb of a quaint house. It had trimmed little hedgerows and a trimmed little garden, and a brick path led up to the front door.

The watch light sent an eerie pallor across the street, so Meredith quickly got out of the car and hurried up to the front door to ring the doorbell. Fog rimmed the sidewalk, and the woman glanced anxiously to-and-fro. It was both unwise and unsafe to be out at such a time.

Her cousin opened the door, clad in pajamas and droopy-eyed. She frowned, snapped, "What's going on, Meredith?" in a sharp voice.

The medic leaned against the doorway and sighed. "Carla, you know your old house? There was a paranormal activity search conducted on it today."

Her cousin paled slightly. "Meredith . . ."

"I managed to question one of them. Lucy Carlyle, the great sensitive," Meredith sneered. Then her mocking expression faded away. "He's there, Carla, your little boy. He was . . . Matthew—" She swallowed hard and began again. "They know, Lockwood & Co, or at least the girl does. She knows . . ." Meredith trailed off again. "I could tell."

Carla chewed nervously at a nail, then grabbed her cousin by the sweater and yanked the woman inside. "There must be something that can be done."


	6. Chapter 6

_Wham!_

A large stack of papers, books, and files were dropped explosively in front of me. Taken by surprise, I coughed momentarily on a cornflake and then reached out a hand to steady the wobbling table.

"What's this, George?" Lockwood was sitting across from me, his feet propped up gracefully beside a bowl of cereal. George stumped toward the kitchen cupboards without a word, so Lockwood sat up and reached for a file, flipping swiftly through it.

"More research," George grunted at last through a mouthful of bran muffin. "Stayed up last night for it. Something you both were too _lazy _to do."

"Hey," I answered defensively, "I was nursing a ghost-touched shoulder. And when I wasn't doing that, I was walking home in the dark because you two didn't send me a cab." I pointed my spoon accusingly at the boys. "I'm still angry about that, you know."

"So you were moaning over an injury and Lockwood was . . .?"

"Doing important things," Lockwood finished. "Very important."

"Like reading the latest _People _magazine? That sort of very important?" I chased a fleeing cornflake around my bowl.

Lockwood coughed uncomfortably. "Ah . . . well . . . the latest gossip can come in handy . . ."

George waved a hand at me and said, "What Lucy picked up from her Touch helped me dig up some interesting things," and as I brightened, he conceded, "but only by a bit."

"It was the teddy bear, you'd said, Luce?" Lockwood leaned forward intently, his tapered fingers spinning his spoon round and round.

"Yes."

"Go over it again, if Your Highness would." George examined the last crumbs of his muffin and tossed away the wrapper with a heartfelt sigh. "This oh-so-very-important news that you burst on us the moment you got home last night. I need to take notes."

I stared at the thinking cloth, at my earlier drawing of poor Annie Ward, with her flowing hair and worn sundress, that icy look in her eyes . . . then I placed a mug of coffee carefully over the sketch. "You remember when I was trapped in that room with the Visitor?"

"It was pretty memorable," Lockwood said dryly.

"There was a teddy bear lying on the boy's bed. When I was trying to get away from the Visitor, my hand whacked it, and . . ." I considered a floating cornflake and then pressed it down with my spoon, drowning it in cold milk. "My Touch talent picked up on some of his memories. There was foul play involving that little boy's death. He didn't die peacefully in his sleep, that's for sure."

"You're right, he didn't." Lockwood's voice wafted over to me, snapping me out of that chilly memory. The lean boy waved a newspaper clipping in the air. "Read this, Luce."

I took it out of his hand and reclined in my chair, eyes scanning the faded print.

**January 17, 2003 **

**Last night at roughly 9 o'clock AM, officials received an emergency call from a quaint house in northern London. When they arrived on the scene, a distressed Carla Callahan related to them of her son's medical emergency; he had, she said, swallowed a whole bottle of prescription pills that had been lying on the kitchen counter. Young Matthew Callahan, at only six years of age, was pronounced dead on the scene. **

**When questioned, Callahan tearfully announced that she would have never harmed her son. The same was said for her husband, recently deceased because of cancerous reasons. One of Carla Callahan's close relatives, her cousin, Meredith Watson-**

"Meredith Watson!" I exclaimed, prodding the name with a finger. "I know her! She's that medic that offered to drive me home after I went to the hospital. A suspicious sort."

"Suspicious? How?" Lockwood asked absently, turning through more pages of newspaper clippings.

"She kept on asking me odd questions, and prying into the events of last night," I muttered, tugging half-heartedly at the lid of the jam jar. "It was like she had something to hide." I abandoned the jam and tossed the clipping back to Lockwood. "Matthew didn't innocently swallow a whole bottle of prescription pills. The Touch didn't _feel_ like that. It was . . . something darker."

Touching the bear had been horrible. It had been a mixture of pain, doubt, and confusion, which was then topped by an overwhelming hunger for love. For warmth. These emotions had trapped me all at once, battered me about until I was gasping for air. I'd sensed the thrilling baritones of a woman's voice, chiming and lulling and harshly persuading me. Then came a strong desire to please, and then panic and emptiness.

"Someone gave Matthew Callahan the pills," I pronounced abruptly, prodding the table fiercely and almost toppling a mug of coffee. "Someone he loved, but didn't love him back. That person wanted him dead, convinced him to eat the prescription pills, and it _worked_."

We all sat there, with cereal growing soggy in the milk, and stared at one another. I dropped my gaze and moved my mug, took a long sip. Annie Ward's blank eyes found mine; I hastily set the mug back down again.

"The Source isn't the boy's room, then," Lockwood stated firmly. "It's his _bear_. We'll need to go back to the house later and get it."

"And we know who the killer is," George said grimly.

"Matthew's dear mother. Carla Callahan. Should we go and pay her a visit?" Lockwood queried, searching for his rapier and finding it hidden under a newspaper.

"Undoubtedly," I growled under my breath, and finished my coffee in a long swig. 


	7. Chapter 7

"Lucy!"

"I'm _coming, _George!" I bellowed back. "For God's sake, give me a minute!" I lifted a cushion, peered under it, and then dropped it back down. My eyes darted over the cramped attic that was my bedroom; sparsely decorated, it was just for the practical purposes of privacy and sleep. And the occasional sparring (literally) with George, when he discovers that I've thrown out all his moldy apple cores that he keeps in his bedroom. He claims that they're for a highly important science experiment. Right.

Lockwood had apparently decided to join in the chorus, because his voice chimed in from downstairs, "I'm leaving for Scotland Yard. You two had better be out of the house and getting that bear by the time I get back, or _else._ I'm talking to you, Lucy._"_

"Who died and made you king?" I panted, but still managing to send my voice whizzing down the stairs back to them. I pounced onto the bed, ruffling covers and flipping over pillows. Where was it . . . ah. There.

I snatched my rapier out from under the bed, where it had fallen off my nightstand, and caromed downstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

Lockwood was busily tucking folders and other pieces of George's research into a shoulder bag. As I hurled myself off of the last step, he glanced up, afternoon light staining his fine cheekbones a ruddy gold. "See you later, Luce. Wish me luck."

"Good luck with Scotland Yard," I said agreeably.

Lockwood was going to Scotland Yard to explain past events and revelations so they could take Callahan in for questioning. George and I had the job of going back to the house and securing the teddy bear.

"They never listen to anything I say," the lean boy muttered, tying one shoe and then the other. "I should send George instead."

"Why not me?" I protested.

"You're too hotheaded. Five minutes is all you need to make them begin completely disregarding our case." He was grinning now, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his brown hair flopping across his eyes, the strap of the shoulder bag slung neatly across his chest. Something in my chest fluttered wildly as I smiled awkwardly back, even though I'd just been bloody _insulted._

"I'll just have to march over there and convince them," Lockwood continued jokingly. "They'll listen, they have to. After all, I am the eloquent one. The dashing one."

"The one who has a lack of taste in reading material," a voice belched from behind us. I sighed inwardly and turned around.

George tossed the latest _People _magazine to Lockwood, who caught it expertly and quickly jammed it into his bag. "Found this on the sofa again." The plump boy turned his gaze to me, focusing in on my rapier. "You do realize it's daytime."

"I have," I snapped back defensively. Unconsciously, we both began rearing up. Lockwood coughed and began quietly edging towards the doorway.

"Then why're you bringing your rapier?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Use your brain! Oooh, wait, maybe you don't have one. Oopsies."

"Why don't—let _go _of me, Lockwood—you tell me, George. Why shouldn't I bring my rapier?" My tension, which had already been there since this morning, was easily brought to the surface by George's crude remarks.

"Tell you?" He smirked. "Because there won't be any Visitors to keep at bay, you dolt."

"_Dolt?" _I advanced on him furiously, fists clenched. "I'll show you who is a dolt. _You, _the one that's as charming as an oily cloth. _You, _as the person who sits on the armchair in his underwear. _You, _you . . . condescending, supercilious prat!"

We were nose-to-nose now, eyes burning angrily into one another's. The tranquil moment I'd shared with Lockwood had been swept away, instead replaced by a swirling, heated . . . _tentative? _. . . emotion.

"Stop this RIGHT now!" Lockwood wrenched us apart, his eyes hot. The three of us stood in a tense triangle, George and I avoiding each other's eyes. "What kind of agency is this?" Lockwood continued in a quieter tone. "You two snapping at each other like prissy Chihuahuas . . ." He straightened and strode to the door, not looking at us on his way out. "Please, just get along for one hour. I'll be back soon."

The disappointment in his voice pierced me; and from the look on George's face, it had wounded him as well.

We stood in there in an uncomfortable silence. One second, two seconds . . . the exasperated look on Lockwood's face . . . three seconds . . .

I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and stuck out my hand. "I'm sorry. I overreacted."

George's clammy hand shook mine. He pushed his wiry glasses up his podgy nose. "So did I. I'm even sorrier, Lucy."

"No, really. I am."

"I am. Trust me."

"We're doing it again," I said in amusement. George's mouth quirked into a small smile. Another lapse in conversation and then I added, "Lockwood . . ."

"He'll get over it, he always does." George said reassuringly.

"It was bit over-the-top to call us prissy Chihuahuas, though, wasn't it?"

"Yes. I've nothing against Chihuahuas."

I opened the door and we stepped out, the fresh summer air hitting our faces. I closed my eyes briefly, felt the sun dance across my skin; then I plodded after George, who was already stumping down the pavement.

When we finally reached the house, George was sweating and I was feeling the heat. A tree's long branches draped over a portion of the sidewalk, casting it into a chilling shade, and I looked longingly towards it before following George once again through the white gate toward the house.

Once inside, with afternoon light creeping through the windows to settle sleepily on the floor, we made for the hall without a word. As we approached, I subconsciously reached for my rapier. All of our gear was back at the house; Visitors never appeared in the day, only at night, as George had pointed out heatedly earlier; but I just couldn't resist taking my rapier along. It was the agent in me, I'd told myself as I'd yelled at George. Nothing else.

I leaned forward, flicking my bangs away with a finger, to look at a picture mounted on the wall. It was a professional photograph of a family of three; a father smiling merrily, with his bald head gleaming, a wild-haired mother beside him, beaming, and perched on her knee was the boy. He was flushed with the vigor of youth, his blond hair fluffy and his eyes sparkling, skin tinged with that color that blood brings when it is still pumped strong through your veins.

I reached out a finger and lightly touched the side of his face, then glanced up at the woman whose knee he was balanced upon.

She didn't seem like a murderer; but then again, you can never tell.

I moved my hand away and then continued down the hall. This hall, which had been as black as tar the night before, was now alight with rays of sunshine. It was such a drastic difference that my surroundings seemed quite unfamiliar; until, my eyes following the photos on the walls again, my toe hit the leg of a side-table and I grinned weakly at the familiar pain.

"Lucy." George waved me over; I fell in beside him, and we looked into the boy's room.

It was startlingly different from the night before. The sunlight, like the one in the hall, shimmered along the walls and made everything seem merry. A child's drawing of a train was stuck to the wall with more pins that necessary.

The only remnant from the eerie feeling of last night was when I cast my gaze to the wall alongside the doorway. I hadn't noticed it the night before, when everything had been so dark; I'd also been preoccupied with the ghost stalking me round the room.

It was picture, mounted on the wall, very different from the one in the hallway. On the first glance, it was normal: merely a mother sitting in a chair, cradling her child. On the second glance, if you bothered to take one, you could see the wicked curl to the mother's lips, the odd glint in her eye and the way her fingers jabbed painfully into the baby's side. Her other hand had the forefinger positioned right above the child's upper chest; like a gun to the heart.

I tore my gaze away to see George carefully positioning a silver net over the teddy bear. He tucked the edges in, and then squeezed the bear into a glass jar that was a mite too small for it.

"Is the jar necessary?" I asked, wincing as the bear's face was squished up against the glass; his beady black eyes bored a hole into my forehead. One paw was pressed against the side, as if he were straining to get out.

"You said the Visitor was a strong Type Two. We can't risk it. Not like . . ." George cast a sideways glance at me. "Annie Ward."

I scowled at the memory, of when the ghost girl had appeared in my bedroom. All because I'd forgotten about the locket I'd placed in my pocket, the Source for her. And the Source for Matthew Callahan was this sad-looking bear . . .

"We've got what we came for, so let's go," I said abruptly, turning on my heel. "I've had enough of this place for a lifetime."

**Review. It would make my day! **


	8. Chapter 8

When the doorbell rang later that afternoon, we set about with the normal routine. Lockwood spun acrobatically on his heel, headed for the door; meanwhile, George and I whirled through the kitchen, hands motoring, sending dirty plates into the sink and wiping the table of all curious substances. The thinking cloth was adjusted, apple cores chucked in the bin, and the plasm burns from last week were scraped off the cupboard wood. It was all timed so right that Lockwood was just leading our newest client into the kitchen when I clunked several mugs of tea onto the table. The table was looking rather barren, so I threw a plate of fruit and some leftover biscuits on as well.

We all sat down.

"George, Lucy, this is Julian Hart." Lockwood already had his notebook out on the table, flipped to a page as blank as snow. "Mr. Hart, my colleagues."

I smiled awkwardly.

Hart was a thin man with a sickly pallor; his blue eyes were covered with a light film, his skin was yellowing, and his veins stood out against his skin. I bit into a biscuit and wondered how he'd managed to survive a ghost encounter of any kind. The man looked like he'd fall apart at a single scare.

"Involved in the recent arrest, were you?" Julian Hart asked creakily. He pulled his mug towards him and sniffed the contents warily; I crossed my arms as the tea was examined.

"Of Carla Callahan, yes." Lockwood ignored the pained looks George and I no doubt had on our faces as Hart sneezed wetly into his mug.

"You had some sort of hogwash about seeing the murder take place?" Hart chugged his tea down and smacked his lips. He glanced around at us, sitting rigidly in our seats. A narrow finger pointed in my direction. "Her. She saw it, didn't she? With her little . . . _hic! _ . . . 'scuse me . . . Touch."

I met his gaze and subconsciously raised my chin a bit.

"Well, this isn't about past cases, is it?" Lockwood said. He twirled the pencil in his fingers in a pointed sort of way. "What have you come to see us about, Mr. Hart?"

"So you're the smooth, sly, secretive one, you. The leader. The snake. _Harumph_." Hart seemed to have not heard Lockwood as he cocked his head in the boy's general direction. "And you"—he leveled his gaze at George, who flushed slightly but kept his fluttering smirk on—"are the sarcastic, pompous one. Bit podgy around the middle, aren't you?"

The two boys directed their burning gazes into their mugs.

"And me?"

Hart eyed me. "The tricky one," he said at last, and seemed satisfied with that.

The _tricky _one. Well, at least I hadn't been called a snake.

"Off topic, here." Lockwood steered professionally. "What were your experiences, Mr. Hart?"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o

It was after we shut the door on Hart's back that I let myself chuckle. Lockwood looked at me curiously; George was still wearing a moody expression.

I pointed a finger that shook as I laughed, directed towards Lockwood. "Smooth . . . sly . . . secretive one . . ." I staggered towards the sofa and collapsed into it, burying my laughter into a cushion.

"Well, you're . . . _tricky," _Lockwood said half-heartedly.

I laughed harder.

He threw his hands up in the air and left the room.

I pulled the cushion away from my face at last to find George sitting across from me, a newspaper in his lap.

He looked up in irritation as the laughter began again. "You're not even the slightest bit down?"

I was grinning. "About what?"

He thrust the newspaper about me. "There was a reason Julian Hart knew about Callahan's arrest. There's an article in here . . . right there . . . see? _'Scotland Yard has made little progress in Callahan's case . . .' "_

My laughter had died away now. I snatched the paper away and read it through, my frown getting deeper and deeper. "It's been nearly a week! They haven't found anything?"

George merely shrugged and snatched the newspaper back.

"But they have Carla Callahan! It's her!"

Another shrug.

"Stupid Scotland Yard."

George sighed loudly. "You can be thick, can't you? Innocent until proven guilty, Lucy. Callahan _hasn't been proven guilty, _and thus she's walking free in a matter of days."

I glowered at the ceiling. "She seemed fishy to me."

"Unfortunately, 'fishy' isn't enough for police to go off of. They're not addle-brained like some people."

"I'm not _addle-brained_."

"Did I say you were? Hmmm. No."

"You were _implying _it."

"Ooooh, scary." He folded the newspaper with a satisfied expression and left the room, leaving me lying on the couch in a swirling silence.

It wasn't the agency's job to go around solving crime. We were, as corny as it sounded, ghost hunters. Track down the Source, seal it up or eradicate it, and bam. The job is done. We'd done that at Matthew Callahan's house.

And yet I was still feeling that incompleteness. I _needed _to know what had happened to Matthew. It was driving me.

Maybe our current case would help.

**I'm sorry that this is so short. It's just that I'm having a problem with the plot, so I'm . . . well . . . stalling. *****awkward cough***** **


	9. Chapter 9

**So . . . I just wanted to thank you all for the reviews. They've spurred me on and I **_**think **_**I'm almost past my writer's block. The plot is still teasing me, though. Darn that plot. **

**Anyway, this may or may not be a filler. It depends on how you want to see it. I've decided to go with Average Addict's kind review and say that FILLERS ARE COOL. **

**And because this A/N just isn't long enough, guess what? I've finally learned the British term for cookies. It's **_**biscuits.**_** Yes, the same name for those flaky little bread-things that I like to eat (but hardly ever get) in the part of the U.S where I live. I used the term in the last chapter, but I think it's too late for the title. **

The burnt-sugar sunshine that seared into the pavement began to melt, oozing as it crept backwards into the hedge bushes. The street was cold and quiet; everyone was retreating into their homes, locking the doors, perhaps eyeing their iron charms and adjusting them here and there. The ghost-lamps flickered in their holders, warming up for the long night. A wind sighed down the pavement, curled around a picketed fence that ran along a silent house. Within the wooden barrier a drab garden bloomed sullenly, and the trees hushed each other in the wind.

"137 Russel Street." Lockwood glanced from the address written in his notebook to the three numbers splashed in a curlicue gold across the front door. "This is it."

George pushed open the gate and we walked over a pretty pebbled path to the front door. No use in ringing the doorbell; Julian Hart would be sleeping at a motel with his wife tonight.

Lockwood paused on the front step, the wind blowing his long coat away from his slender frame. "All right. Let's run over the facts."

"Can't we get into the house first?" I muttered, shivering as the same wind cut smartly through my sweater and pierced the raw flesh of my healing shoulder. "It's freezing."

"London weather. Get used to it." George grunted.

"Not always _freezing, _though."

"Mmm."

Lockwood clapped his gloved hands together. "We'll be in soon. Okay. First off: Hart claimed to have woken up in the middle of the night, his neck prickling. He glanced around the room—"

"—and saw a black shape in the hallway," I finished.

"Lucy . . .well . . . yes." After a glance at our goose-bumped arms, Lockwood swept a key out of his pocket and began fiddling with the lock. "So Hart wakes up, sees a black shape which is obviously a Visitor, though his old eyes can't see it clearly, can he? He screams, pulls open a drawer and chucks . . . what was it, Lucy?"

"A boot."

"He pulls a boot out of the drawer and chucks it at the Visitor."

"Which does nothing," I chimed in helpfully. We're in the house now, which is comparably warmer than the gusting outdoors.

"His wife has woken up, opens _her _drawer, and throws a silver clasp at the ghost, which does a lot more harm and it vanishes on the spot. A Type One, obviously, because all it did was stand there and it fled after a whiff of silver." Lockwood picked a leaf out of my hair and tossed it out the door, his fingers catching on a few strands of hair before he pulled it away and moved off nonchalantly. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling curiously tingly, and tried to ignore George's large smirk.

"The ghost was there in the firstplace because the two of them are idiots," George snorted from behind us.

" 'Idiots' is a bit strong." Lockwood led us to the kitchen, a large, checker-tiled room next to the front door.

"They lent their iron charm to a visiting son," I said in disgust, "and thought that they'd be just fine. Eh, Lockwood?" That tingly feeling came again, and I slapped it away. Put on a bland expression. Tried to ignore the way Lockwood's hair—

What the hell was wrong with me? I'd never considered Lockwood romantically much before. Why start now?

I wouldn't, I protested to myself. We were just colleagues. Nothing . . . more. Ever.

Right?

Why was I thinking about this on a job?

It could be pondered on later, muddled with my thoughts on poor Matthew Callahan and his suspicious death. I shunted all Lockwood-romance-lovely hair-ideas away and began tugging a thick jacket out of the duffel bag.

As I slid it on, Lockwood threw the kettle onto the stove and began heating up the water. "I have nothing to say to that."

To what?

Oh. My earlier question.

George coughed pointedly beside me, and as my gaze flicked to him, he raised his eyebrows and made a kissy-face. A finger jabbed in the direction of Lockwood. Then at my face, which was surely flushing.

As Lockwood turned back around, holding cups of Pitkin Brothers tea, a hand reached subtly under the table and pinched George's flabby wrist until he winced and scowled in my general direction. Teach him not to be so immature.

We drank up, set the candles and lamps alight, and tucked the last tools in our belts. George subtly sneaked a few crackers in there as well, and I followed his lead because of my grumbling stomach.

Outside, the last rays of the sunset were fading into a blood red sea. Purple clouds bobbed like ducks, and an airplane sliced through one as cleanly as a knife. Then the last bit of light trickled away and disappeared, and we were left in the dark.

I couldn't help but shiver a little as we moved out into the hallway that led into the bedroom. It mirrored the Callahan case so much . . . only this hallway was brighter, with a skylight above that let the moon's silver liquid gush inside.

It got colder as we approached the bedroom. George was examining his belt-thermometer, the green glow lighting up every contour to his podgy face. "Getting colder," he whispered through chattering teeth. "Fifteen degrees, and dropping."

"I should've brought a thicker coat," I muttered under my breath, which steamed a puffy white in the cold air.

A crunch beside me as George bit into a cracker.

We entered the room without anything dramatic. I did tense up a bit as we moved through the doorway, hunching my shoulders in and expecting the door to slam close any moment.

But nothing happened. After all, Julian Hart's ghost was only a Type One.

"Anything?" Lockwood asked us in a whisper, and we knew what he meant as we tested our Talents, looking and listening.

"Nothing," I said, at the same time George said hoarsely, "Behind you, Lockwood."

The lean boy spun around, his coat whipping around his thighs, without a hint of fear in his eyes. I moved around a drawer and bumped my hip into the bedpost with a hiss of pain.

Now that George had pointed it out and I knew where to look, the Visitor's form was clearly defined against the beige backdrop of the wall. It was an old woman, I could see, as I squinted; her hair was curly and white, and her eyes were a laughing gray. She was in her nightgown.

I had a sudden flashback to Matthew Callahan, standing serenely before me in his blue footie pajamas . . .

She did nothing, just looked at us, and then pointedly drifted backwards into the wall. She disappeared.

For a moment the three of us looked at each other, hesitant to see what we might discover. Then, without another pause, Lockwood swung the hilt of his rapier into the wall and made a large dent.

George and I joined him, digging into the wall and clawing out the plaster as flakes of paint rained into our hair like sickly snowflakes. When the job was finished about fifteen minutes later, we all stood back, panting.

There was a box hidden in the wall. About the size of two shoe-boxes, both side-by-side and stacked on top of one another.

Lockwood plucked it out, his fingers scratching against the splintering wood, and held it in his hands. We looked at it.

"Open it," said George.

Lockwood opened it.

Inside were stacks upon stacks of pounds, both the paper and the coin type. They were held together by paper clips and by rubber bands, a nice rectangle of money compressed to each other after years. Inside the box was a note.

I unfurled it with dusty fingers.

_Well, Thomas, if you're reading this then I have failed utterly in my mission, you big glutton. You galoot. You goose. Wanker. Etc, etc, etc. If you're not reading this, then my mission has succeeded and you haven't gotten your grubby paws on my money. You haven't deserved it and I believe that you never shall. _

_It may have seemed a bit extreme, so seal all this money up in the wall. But I am an old woman, and it seemed all so James Bond, and there is nobody I have left that I would like to give it to. I've always been an extreme sort of woman, anyway. _

_I still love you, Thomas, but at the same time I do not. It's confusing. I'm muddled. I don't like the things you have done, but you're a fabulous kisser. How shallow of me, hmm?_

_If someone other than my ex-husband Thomas Hills finds this, then I should like the money to be donated to a charity or other good cause. Better that than the goose. _

_And again, if you find this, Thomas, and spend it all on your stupid gambling, then I will personally write you a recommendation letter. Sent to Satan. So there. _

_-Lois Hanna Delaney_

_Aged 87, 1999 (I put that there because I wanted to. Humor an old lady, if you will). _


	10. Chapter 10

Of course we did as the letter asked and donated the money to charity. George was looking rather mournful as we sent it off, hands folded behind him and watching the fortune in pounds sail out of his reach. Lockwood turned and clapped him on the shoulder, a faint grin on his lips; I scoffed and left the building to hail a cab.

As I waited in the chilly wind, the afternoon sun doing nothing to stop the cold, my eyes fell upon a large billboard sign erected across the street.

**Fawk's Mint Toothpaste! **It declared in bold letters. **It'll get even your most stubborn children to brush! **

Below it was a picture of a golden-haired boy, grinning toothily as he scrubbed away with a bright orange toothbrush. His mouth was frothy with toothpaste foam; his eyes, which were . . .

Blue. A cerulean blue, alight with the springiness of the healthy youth.

Blue.

Not brown.

I was thinking of _him _again. Matthew Callahan. That poor dead kid . . .

And as fate would have it, the moment a cab arrived at the curb I felt someone staring at me. Pointedly. Wanting me to turn around, to . . .

I turned slowly.

Meredith Watson looked back, seated stiffly on a wooden bench. Her arms were folded. A fuzzy red scarf was tied loosely around her neck, and her caramel hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. She looked exactly as she had in a photograph from the newspaper; old eyes on a young face.

She wasn't smiling.

When she noticed me staring right back, Meredith held out a hand and crooked one finger. She gestured for me to come over. It was a demand, not a request.

I don't do demands.

But she probably knew something about the case.

Meredith wasn't trustworthy.

But she had to know what had happened to her cousin's son.

Meredith was a suspicious character.

Lockwood and George were climbing into the car. George was clambering in one limb at a time, and Lockwood was folding his own lanky limbs like a crane, settling into the passenger's seat.

I took a step back and slammed the door shut behind George.

Lockwood's window rolled down. "Lucy. I'm feeling rather repetitive these days." He sighed. "What are you doing?"

"There's . . . something I need to do, Lockwood."

He followed my gaze to Meredith, who had her head turned to the side and was studying a small flock of birds pecking at seed. She threw another handful down, and the smallest bird rose up, hopping onto her index finger to get at the bag in her lap. Meredith's eyes softened; she settled it onto her knee and the bird eagerly swallowed seed after seed, his feathery brown wings shifting.

I bundled my coat firmly around myself. "I'll meet you back at the house later."

"No."

"How long do the—I'm sorry, what?" It wasn't that I hadn't heard. It was that I hadn't wanted to hear what I had heard. "Did you just say _no?"_

Lockwood turned to the cab driver and said something quietly; the driver nodded and turned the key in its slot.

The car rumbled to a halt. Lockwood got out of the car, and his brown eyes were melting. The firmness was getting soft around the edges. Like chocolate in the sun.

"Just come home, Lucy. The case with that boy . . ."

"Matthew."

" . . . It's over."

Meredith was still casting the birdseed, pointedly not looking our way. The bird had hopped away now and was flitting around a butterfly bush, his thin beak opening in a series of baby chirps.

"I have to talk to her," I said quietly, trying to hold back a wave of anger that had swelled in me like a balloon. Still, a trace of it escaped into my voice and Lockwood paused. His eyes were healing now. Getting harder.

"No, you don't." His voice was still quiet. George got out of the cab and stood beside Lockwood, looking pained. He shoved Lockwood to the side and took the stage. He used his usual tact.

"Stop being a bloody brat and just come home."

"Bloody _brat?" _The tide broke and my voice rose, along with my temper. "_Bloody brat?" _

"Now you've done it," Lockwood said under his breath, glowering at George.

"She needs to hear it." George put his hands on his hips and sneered at me. "Yes, Lucy, you are a bloody brat. Now get your bloody behind in the bloody car and come to the bloody house with us!" His face was quite flushed, like an overripe tomato. "All you've done for a week is complain, complain, complain!"

"Oh, _really?_ Look who's talking, George!"

"At least I'm not mooching around all day, sniveling to myself and keeping in my own little daydream! 'Oooh, I'm Lucy! Oh! Is that a teddy bear? Wahahahahaaa!'"

I balled a fist and raised it, taking a step forward. "Shut up."

"No, I won't!" George was looking triumphant, though quite out of breath; his voice squeaked as he came down from the high falsetto he had used to imitate me. The _nuisance. _The _idiot. _He knew nothing. Nothing.

I told him so.

"I know for sure that you two are making a scene." Lockwood grabbed us by the arms; both of us tore vehemently out of his grasp, almost nose-to-nose as we glared at each other. "George! Lucy!"

" 'Oooh, I'm Lucy! Oh—that little boy has blond hair . . . oh . . . _waaahahaaaa!_' " George spat. "Admit it, Lucy. There's a problem. So why don't you just come home and tell us WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!"

I snapped. Just like that.

"Don't you _dare_ imitate me in that way! You don't know _anything _about me, George, because you're an insensitive boy who cares about NOTHING other than FOOD! I haven't seen you do anything that benefits the agency! You're practically useless! Yes, you are, George—_useless! _Boohooohoo, it wouldn't make a difference if you were gone! Lockwood and I would be able to manage JUST FINE! So just GET OUT OF OUR LIVES! You and your insults, your scathing comments, you never say anything nice! I've disliked you ever since we first met! You're as charming as a toe-rag, George! I _can't_ stand you anymore! Go AWAY!"

I was furious out of my mind, bellowing the most hurtful things at him that came to mind. Tears were rising to my eyes; emotions swirled underneath, barely hidden. All the times George had interrupted Lockwood and I, blundering in and ruining the moment . . . the way Matthew Callahan's death would remain a mystery, unless I did something . . . George's usual obnoxiousness . . . the way he thought he knew everything . . . a lump was in my throat that wouldn't go away.

George looked like he had been slapped. He opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it. His face was mottled, a mixture of red and white, and his eyes were shining strangely. Then he turned and brushed past Lockwood to step into the cab, slamming the door behind him.

"George doesn't have a hide like a rhino," Lockwood said, and his voice was oddly strained. He ran his hands through his hair, breathing deeply. He looked very tired. I was too angry to care. "You really hurt him. George . . . has problems with being left behind. Past stuff." He lowered his hands and didn't even bother looking me in the eye. The tone of his voice was still strange. "He was right, you know. George. You've been acting oddly, mooching around a bit. You should have talked with us. Not bickered with George. _Again._

"You can go talk to Meredith if you want. Fine. Go. Be careful." He slid into the cab and closed the door. A moment later, it eased out onto the street and disappeared.

It hit me, later, what that strange tone in Lockwood's voice had been.

Disappointment.


	11. Chapter 11

**Warning: this chapter is a **_**bit**_** . . . what's the term for it? Angsty? I'm not sure. Anyway, feedback and tips would help a lot. **

_Chapter 10: "It hit me, later, what the strange tone in Lockwod's voice had been. Disappointment."_

The realization weighed in me like a stone.

I stood on the pavement; hands jammed in pockets, watching the bright yellow cab wriggle its way through London traffic before disappearing down a side street.

I had taken things a little too far.

If I ever were to make things plain to George, I had planned to do it meticulously. Cleverly. In a way that would make his jaw drop and his mind explode from my astounding wit.

Not like this. Not like how I had done.

_Especially _not with Lockwood there.

Dammit.

I hadn't really meant the part about George leaving. Sure, George Cubbins could be a pain in the backside sometimes—always—but . . . it wasn't enough to make me want him gone forever.

I watched cars cruise by with a sense of absence. The two of them would never forgive me, would they? After what I'd said, I couldn't blame them. But then what would happen? Maybe . . . maybe I had to start searching for other job options. I'd pack up my things in a little duffel, say good-bye to my room . . . maybe to the boys if they cared enough to send me off . . . scrape the beautiful emblazoned Lockwood & Co symbol from my rapier—

I pressed my eyelids together forcefully and stopped the beginnings of a warm tear.

Overreacting. Calm down. They wouldn't send me packing . . . at least, I didn't think they would. Calm down. I squeezed my eyes together tighter.

A gentle hand on my arm startled me. "Lucy?"

Meredith Watson. I'd forgotten about her, and right now I could care less about her. I didn't turn around.

"It's cold out here. I saw your friends . . . how should I put this . . . leave? Are you all right?"

All right? With Matthew pressing in on my mind, George and Lockwood as well, and the case pursuing the boy's death soon to be dropped, I felt wrung out. Stretched. Strained. So _no, _Meredith Watson, I'm _far _from all right.

"Lucy Carlily?" Her clarinet of a voice asked again.

"_Carlyle." _Chin up now, don't go boo-hooing on a stranger. I straightened my shoulders before turning around. "And I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." Meredith Watson looked back at me in concern as her wooly red scarf whipped back and forth in the wind.

I heaved a sigh and decided to trust this woman for a moment, if only to expect a truthful answer for a question. "My face is all scarlet and blotchy, isn't it?"

"Well . . . yes."

"Figures." I scrubbed away at my face, cursing under my breath.

"Look, that's just going to make it worse." Meredith shivered. "Why won't you come over to my place and we'll make soup or something?"

I lowered my hands. The prospect of a warm haven and soup was calling to me, and I was still feeling in a tearful state. Plus, Meredith's eyes were a protective gray, an understanding gray. I could talk at her all I wanted, and _did _I need someone to talk to.

Reason before needs, however. Sometimes I really hate my conscience.

Meredith's eyes found my suspicious ones. She smiled brightly. "Tomato soup and a conversation. How does that sound?"

And that's how I ended up following Meredith Watson home.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"Is it warm enough? Do you like it?" Meredith hovered around me like a mother bird, the pot of soup still in her hand. A bit sloshed out onto the table and she took a moment to dab ferociously at the drops. It only ended up smeared into the pale wood, and she gave up before returning to the kitchen. "So? Lucy?"

"It's fine. Thank you." I sat stiffly in my chair, now doubting my decision. What had I been thinking to come home with a total stranger? Lockwood was always reprimanding me for my impulsiveness; I slumped down and glowered at the table. It stung a bit to know that he was right.

We were in Meredith's dining room, seated around a small circular table with a bowl of fruit and a jug of cider in the center. The lights above buzzed droningly. An open window off to the side let in both the light and waves of cold.

My hands were still freezing as they cradled the bowl; I cupped them around the edge, soaking in the heat, and watched Meredith Watson sit primly across from me. Another spoonful of soup later and we were staring at each other over our bowls, steam wafting into our faces.

"You looked deathly cold out there." Meredith smiled awkwardly. "The wind?"

"Yeah."

"More soup?"

"No thanks."

A hesitant pause.

"So . . ." She leaned forward and cupped her chin in her hand. "How are you liking your job, Lucy . . . Carlynn?"

"Carlyle," I said immediately, trying to keep from gritting my teeth. "And I love it, I guess."

"You guess."

"It can be a pain sometimes, even literally, but . . ." I sighed. "The agency is my life." Perhaps for not much longer, however.

"The _agency._ And the two boys you were bickering with outside are in it with you?" She patted her lips with a soft napkin.

I gripped my spoon harder and stared into my soup. "Yes. Yes, they are."

"Now, forgive me if I am a bit forward, but . . . what were you fighting about?" Her gray eyes examined me with quizzical interest; something hungry glinted within, and I shivered momentarily.

"We . . ." How was I supposed to explain that we were arguing over _her? _"It was case business."

"_Case _business." She raised her eyebrows. I shrugged. "And . . . how is the case going with my cousin's son? You saw his ghost back at her house. I read it in the paper."

Another shrug, this time a bit more stiffly.

"And Lockwood and Co. had Carla put under suspicion for his death, am I right?" Meredith leaned over her soup, gray eyes hard.

I swallowed.

"_Am I right?"_

No going back now. "Yes," I said equally as waspishly, "but we had our reasons." I pushed back from the table, the legs of the chair screeching over the glossy kitchen floor. "Thank you for having me. I'll be going n—"

"Listen." Meredith took my hands in hers. They were hot and clammy from making soup, calloused and worn as well. "It wasn't my cousin, Lucy. She would never. Understand? Never. The two of them were the sweetest pair you could imagine."

I said nothing.

"There." Meredith Watson let me go and crossed her arms. We surveyed each other. Then she broke out into a strained sort of smile. "Now, aside from these uncomfortable topics"—we both chuckled awkwardly—"How is life in general?"

What kind of question was that?

"Life is all right. Could be better."

"Anything . . . romantic?"

I goggled at her.

"Romantic?"

"You know . . . boys. You're old enough," Meredith said thoughtfully. "I've always been an old maid."

"Boys—no!" I was probably flushing bright red. "I . . . no." A brief vision of Lockwood flashed through my mind, delicately picking a leaf out of my hair, his face bent close to my shoulder; I bent close to my soup and purposefully slurped at it loudly.

"You're blushing. Come on, tell."

"I won't." I didn't even bother to deny it this time, which surprised even me. Could it be . . .? No. Not Lockwood. Someone else, not a colleague, not _him—_

"What about that tall, skinny boy in your agency? What was his name again?" Meredith teased. "Anthony Lockwood? The _fearless leader _types, then; do you like _them?_"

"Quoting the Animorphs." I pointed out, ignoring her question.

"You've read them!" she said happily. "Oh, I love to read—you probably never have the time, what with your work and all . . . there is this book that you absolutely _must _read. It's based in London, after all, and there are magicians and djinn and it's an absolutely _spellbinding _piece of work—"

And so the morning passed this way. I didn't bother mentioning the excellent change in conversation.

Once the clock had crawled towards late noon, we were sitting on the couch beside the open window, sunshine crawling along the carpet.

"Tell me, what is it like, your agency?"

"My agency? The people in it, you mean?"

"Yes."

I paused. Thought. What _were _they like?

"Lockwood is the leader. George is the cranky researcher. And I'm . . . me."

It was pitiful, but it felt wrong to try to describe it to her. She just didn't know. Didn't know how it felt to trust your back to these people as you entered a haunted building. Didn't know how we had sat around various kitchen tables over the years, chatting as lantern light flickered. Didn't know how we each mentally counted down the days together, waiting anxiously, with dread in our hearts, for the day that our Talents would leave us and Lockwood & Co. would be no more. It was something different. It was a bond.

A bond. It couldn't be easily broken. And if it were, it could be healed.

I stood up abruptly. "I'm sorry, but I've got to go. There're . . . things I've need to do."

Meredith didn't blink an eye. She showed me to the door. "Good bye, Lucy Carleen."

I didn't bother correcting her this time.

Once outside, standing forlornly on the curb, I somehow managed to hail a cab. A grizzled man turned around in the driver's seat. "Where to, missy?"

"35 Portland Row, please." I turned my head to look out the window. "Home."


End file.
